


In the Tongue of Man

by mystarsandmyocean



Category: October Daye Series - Seanan McGuire
Genre: 5 Times, Alternate Universe - Canon Divergence, As in Timelines, Character Study, Gen, Implied/Referenced Character Death
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-12-18
Updated: 2016-12-18
Packaged: 2018-09-09 10:34:27
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,644
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/8887573
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/mystarsandmyocean/pseuds/mystarsandmyocean
Summary: Quentin Sollys has held many roles in his relatively short life. Foster of Shadowed Hills. Squire to Sir October Daye. Crown Prince of the Westlands. But what of the roles he never held? The lives he never led?A five times fic, of canon-divergence.





	

**Author's Note:**

  * For [notsoelegant](https://archiveofourown.org/users/notsoelegant/gifts).



 

“ _By my soul I swear, there is no power in the tongue of man to alter me._ ”

― William Shakespeare, _The Merchant of Venice_

 

  
i. a saint damned

The lady before me was the most beautiful faerie I'd ever seen. As she bent towards me, the smell of winter roses pierced the air, fragrant and strong and utterly foreign to the Kingdom  of Endless Skies, where fields ran far as the eye could see and summer ruled so long as the sun held tightly to its throne in the clouds. She had to be a queen, I thought.

No, I corrected. She had to be _my_ queen.

She smiled, and the world corrected to align with her joy. "Well, Quentin. You have quite the choice to make."

My mother sobbed, and for the first blink of clarity since the lady had entered our house, I remembered the tears, the shouts, the scream as I had been torn from my mother's arms and thrown to the floor. Why, why had she screamed? Why had they come, these pureblood legends of Faerie?

"Quentin." The lady spoke again, emotion sparking in those solemn eyes. "You must now make your choice."

Mama had warned me of this question and the time to come, and still, in the face of such terrible beauty, I could not believe the danger and asked. "What choice?"

"Whose child are you, Quentin of neither here nor there, son of Maida of Endless Skies and Aethlin of the Westlands? To whom and to where do you belong?"

The mother who had loved and raised me or the father I had never known? Here or -

Fingers cold as ice gripped my chin, pulling my gaze upwards. I couldn't look away from her eyes, even if I wanted to, and I did not. I could not.

She was my stars, my sun, my _everything_ and I could not disobey.

"Choose your father, young changeling," she murmured, before her voice rose again, frost against a windowpane. "Choose."

So I did.

 

" _O serpent heart hid with a flowering face!_

_Did ever a dragon keep so fair a cave?_

_Beautiful tyrant, feind angelical, dove feather raven, wolvish-ravening lamb! Despised substance of devinest show, just opposite to what thou justly seemest - A dammed saint, an honourable villain!_ ”

― William Shakespeare, _Romeo and Juliet_

 

 

ii. the idle pleasures

Life, I had been convinced, was cruel rather than fair. Even - _especially_ \- for faeries.  Of all Oberon might have done, in leaving us behind, abandoning his children to humans and time and each other, may well have been the original crime.

Good parents stayed with their children. No matter what.

"It's done," Rayseline announced, her voice that sing-song lilt when her mood ran rare and high. "Now they'll have to see her for who, for _what,_ she really is. A filthy, lying, reckless, stupid changeling.”

The Duchy of Shadowed Hills was filled with changelings - scums and refuge of a half-mad Duke and his blind, deaf heart. There was only one, though, which Raysel scorned so deeply.

Sir October Daye, Knight of Lost Words, sworn to Sylvester Torquill and so-called hero of the realm.

We’d met, barely, in service to our liege before Rayseline had taken me aside, away from her mother’s gardens to the bare land beyond, explaining the why and how behind October’s avoidance of Shadowed Hills and the guilt she bore for Luna Torquill’s and her own disappearance. My anger had gave way to my own abandonment and soon, we were talking incessently, finding stolen moments between our duties, finding home in a place neither of us had thought possible. In Rayseline, I had found a match for my own abandonment, a twin to my festering hurt and forge for my rage. In me, I think she’s found a hero who _will_ come when called - someone who won’t break their promises, no matter what happens.

At least, that’s what I want her to have found. It’s why I swore to help when she confided in me her plans for the Duchy, even when I held back through all my reservations of Rayseline's own torture and every story I'd heard of Oleander de Merelands. King-killer, line-changer, an assassin who would gladly smile as she slit your throat.

The bedtime horror for royals and pure bloods, anyone with enough power or potential to draw her eye.

“Manuel is placing the knife now,” she continued, dancing across the room and draping herself on the chair across from me. Rolling a piece of fruit between her hands, she tore into its flesh, a smile curving round her bite. Manuel, another of October’s victims, had come to Shadowed Hills not too long after my fosterage and had erased any doubts I’d had of her guilt. October was as bad, if not worse, than all the other adults we had known, lecturing like a hypocrite and breaking promises they could never keep.

“What about the old viper?” she questioned, when I only nodded at her update. I had nothing to tell, I wanted to say. Not really. White flesh crunched beneath sharp teeth, before Rayseline licked the sweet juice from her fingers, one by one.

Swallowing, I focused my attention on the vanity near the door, a wedding gift to Rayseline from some kingdom or another. Yet another cruelty from her parents - Connor O’Dell would never be good enough for her and worse enough, couldn’t even be bothered to try.

Just another stolen promise.

I rolled the blue bottle Oleander had passed to me shortly before, coating the gift with a poisonous message as was her due. Illusion kept it hidden from Raysel’s eyes, but I still wasn't sure if hiding it was the safest decision.

“For dear Rayseline,” the witch had simpered, curtsying in her servant’s disguise. “Of course, it could given to you instead, sir page. We have many friends in common, you and I, and this could be your chance to bring yourself...closer to them.”

Before Rayseline had introduced us, Oleander and I had never met. But I knew the stories, had heard the rumors. I had more than one royal peer she’d ensured danced no more.

So, therein lied the question - poison or promise? Trap or escape?

I wasn’t sure. And until I was, I’d make sure Rayseline stayed far, far away from whatever Oleander might be planning. Rayseline might be willing to forgive - if not forget. But I was the one who held her through her screams, who saw how she had grown more and more obsessed with vengeance and revenge. 

The only alchemist, unfortunately, I knew was the one October had brought for Luna. I’d have to find someone else - or use him as a last resort.

“Nope,” I finally answered, slipping the bottle into my jacket pocket under the guise of relaxing back. “No word.”

Rayseline frowned, but I knew she wouldn’t question my word. We both knew I was loyal to her, and only her.

I had made the right choice. Even if I had to lie to her to save her.

 

“ _And therefore, — since I cannot prove a lover,_

_To entertain these fair well-spoken days, —_

_I am determined to prove a villain,_

_And hate the idle pleasures of these days._ ”

― William Shakespeare, _Richard III_

 

 

iii. in blood steeped

Staying silent during that - that whatever the hell it was, I was never going to be able to call it a _trial_ \- may have scorched my insides, burning shame and resentment of the sort I hadn't felt since my parents had sent me into blind fosterage in this mockery of a court, but it had also served a greater purpose. A better one.

The Queen had no reason to question my reports of anarchy in the Eastern Rooms and had sent away half her guards to manage the dispute I had bribed the pixies into starting there stalking to the Throne Room, terror on her face. Running into a rebellion of rose goblins rampaging through the Courts was luck enough I _wish_ I had planned it, and no one had seen me cast a doubling spell over their size before slipping away.

I winced as the screams grew louder, before the twist and turn of the halls faded them away. They would be fine if they avoided the thorns. But my focus needed to be reserved for tracking my way through the dungeons, which I had seen only once, in my first tour of the Kingdom. The distractions would only work for so long, and I couldn't afford to get lost. Not when I could already feel the iron saturating the air, pressing on my chest like a too-strong hug.

"Toby?" I chanced calling, when five minutes had passed and I still had seen no guards. Dank hallways had begun to spiral away from the main pathway, their entrances rimmed with iron to create a deadly maze. Any prisoner lucky enough to escape would most likely already be iron poisoned; lining the paths and doors with iron ensured any path out would be a pain-filled, if not murderous, one. "Toby - "

The hands at my throat had shoved me against the wall before I'd even realized I'd moved; my airway was already cut off before I'd realized those hands were claws. My vision had started to spot, darkness blurring his features, when recognition kicked in. "Ty-Ty-ba-"

Air, sweet Oberon, sweet, precious air flooded into my lungs, great, huge gasps that unfortunately reminded me we might as well be standing in an iron humidifier. Hands wrenched me back up, a hair touch more gentle than before, before I found myself face to face with two men, one of which whom I was significantly more acquainted with than the other.

"And what exactly, young page, do you imagine yourself to be doing here? Bringing even more guards and punishment down on October's head?" My best friend Raj's uncle was terrifying on the best of days. I was never sure what relationship he and Toby had - the few times I'd seen them interact, I'd sworn they'd hated each other, but Raj had turned himself puce laughing when I'd mentioned it. Two days ago, though, he'd looked ready to tear the Queen apart when she'd declared Toby guilty, his snarl reminding me of Raj when we'd first met in Blind Michael's lands.

Now he looked like _I_ was the one he was considering tearing into pieces, heir's best friend or not.

"Of course not!" I surged forward, moving to shove Tybalt's hand away. Another - softer - hand got there first, pulling my wrist down with surprising strength while glaring at Tybalt to do the same. " _I'm_ here to break her out! I was going to - "

I cut myself off, all sorts of curses running in my head. They didn't need to know I'd sent a message to my parents, claiming an emergency and need for safe passage home. The fact that I would be bringing an extra visitor would be explained once I got there, and then my parents could figure out what to do. Surely _they_ would see the Queen of the Mists was crazy and Toby deserved to live?

I had already reasoned that they had clearly fostered me to the Kingdom of the Mists for that very reason and saw no reason to stop the delusion there. Otherwise, all I had learned in my fosterage was that acting like your word was law made people act like it actually _was_ , and in that case, I'd just demand they'd do something about it.

"You were going to what?" asked Connor O'Dell, husband to Rayseline Torquill, primary reason for this mess and someone I did not know well enough to trust at all. Water Fae are rare as far inland as my parent's court and even in the Kingdom of the Mists I'd had few chance to interact with any - beyond "Fetch this," "handle that," and "remove that thing." He would have been the last person I'd have expected to see here, considering the circumstances.

"Take her somewhere safe," I sulked, unable to come up with a better alternative and unwilling to tell either of them - even if Tybalt _was_ Raj's uncle - what I had already planned. "Why, what are _you_ doing here? Don't tell me you had the same idea?"

"As a matter of fact," Connor smiled, letting go of my wrist. Tybalt remained silent, his eyes faraway. I almost rolled mine. Glad to see he was taking this seriously. "We do."

Tybalt turned, striding down tne most iron-heavy hallway. "October has a certain...fondness for you." He called back. "Coming?"

I ran to catch up, not quite sure where he was going. He kept knocking on walls, like they had the answers to Toby's cell, and scowling when no one answered. Except...had that been a moan up ahead?

"Unless you do not wish to rescue October?"

I scowled. "Of course I do."

Tybalt only nodded, continuing to knock at the walls despite the iron echoing off them, and I started to follow. This wasn't exactly how I'd imagined this going, but then again, I hadn't really imagined this much past the rescue and return to the Court of the Westlands at all. At the next split, Tybalt went down one staircase and I another, Connor trailing my back, eyes and ears alert for any sound, any movement at all. I assumed they had been responsible for the rose goblins - denizens of Connor's mother-in-law's purview - but there was no telling how long or how suspicious the dual distractions would be. The fact that, again, it was Luna Torquill's _daughter_ who had accused October, even while her denizens apparently wanted to save her, was a question for another time. There was no moan to match the one I'd sworn we'd heard, only our knocks, but -

A whimper. Up ahead.

I knocked louder, chasing the sound into a groan. "Go away!"

If I'd not been listening, straining for her presence, I'd not have heard it. But there, right there - Connor stumbled behind me as I halted in front of the most grim of the iron-barred cells.

"This one!" I shouted. " She's in this one!"

 

“ _All causes shall give way: I am in blood_

_Stepp’d in so far that, should I wade no more,_

_Returning were as tedious as go o’er._ ”

― William Shakespeare, _Macbeth_

 

 

iv. quintessence of dust

The conclave was officially becoming a disaster. Already, there had been questions to the cure, to the testimony, to its very existence itself. Bad enough I hadn’t arrived before Queen Arden had taken it upon herself to disobey my father’s orders - now I had a disoriented, newly woken prince to deal with as well, one whose peers were demanding be put back to sleep, lest a kingdom be seen as receiving special treatment.

The questions to my legitimacy and ability to pass judgement impartiality had barely begun to be called into question as well, but the King and Queen of Highmountain had made clear they planned to do so as loudly as need be.

They hadn’t said the actual words at news of Antonio’s death, but I had been arguing my claim to the throne with the more bigoted sections of Faerie since I had been born. I knew the signs.

_He may be three-fourth faerie, but his mother still birthed him with human blood in her veins._

_He’s refusing to change his heritage upon his majority. Who’d heard of such a thing?_

_Less changeling than some, but more than enough - he, more than anyone, would want elfshot gone. Can they really believe he’ll be impartial if his own life’s at risk?_

Antonio had been one of today’s more vocal dissenters. Setting Sir October on the case had been another strike, but Silence, Mists, and the Luidaeg swore to her skills.

I needed her to solve this as quickly and efficiently as possible. I almost sent a messenger to ask her for am update, but a knock on the door heralded the return of the conclave and the end of my time alone.

I would need to update my parents later on, but the message I had sent would have to do for now. I was, for the moment, out of time.

The knock sounded again. I needed to make a decision on the conclave’s security going forward, I noted, slipping my circlet back on.

I needed -

A sound tore through the air behind me. The sound of swords scraping together, metal on metal. I whirled, hand leaping to my own, before remembering I was weaponless, as the rules of the conclave demanded -

The shadows _jumped_.

I needed - 

The world went dark.

 

" _What a piece of work is a man! how noble in reason! how infinite in faculty! in form and moving how express and admirable! in action how like an angel! in apprehension how like a god! the beauty of the world! the paragon of animals! And yet, to me, what is this quintessence of dust?_ ”

― William Shakespeare, _Hamlet_

 

 

v. a precious jewel

They’d _lied_ to me.

Her. Him. My _mother._ A _changeling_.

How could she - ? How had they - ? Daoine Sidhe features, the same ones I had known my entire life, echoed my shock in the mirror, the pureblood twin to my now - _lie_ \- of a heritage. I had the same curved ears and tufted hair as before, the same bronze-gold hair as my father, but now, with my majority the next day, they’d told me the truth. Mama had never been cursed or magic-bound or whatever silly reasoning I’d come up with as a child, the naive imaginings of a boy too young to know better, and I couldn’t believe how easily I’d bought the trickery and lies.

There was plenty of trickery and lies among Faerie; I had always known that. But we were supposed to be above it, those of us who would rule, supposed to be pure and loyal and strong enough to care for the lesser elements who needed to be kept under control. But how could I be expected to rule and keep anyone under control when my own grandmother was a human and my mother - the kindest, wisest woman I knew - was, or had been, or still would always be one of those in need of control herself?

A crack pierced the air, the marble beneath my hands crumbling under my grip. I’d already lost the fight against the wall to aching fists; finger by finger, I loosened my grip. I couldn’t afford to damage my hands anymore than I already had.

Dust swirled to the floor, a powdered mist that coated my feet and hands. The same hands I had always had, the same feet that had grown only more lithe as my body sprouted taller. I was Daione Sidhe. Of that, there was no doubt.

But I felt out of control too.

Tomorrow, I was supposed to leave the Westlands for a human disguise, following in my father’s time-honored footsteps to take the human equivalent of our own royal role and live the course of a human life. This way, he had told me, I would better learn my people, traveling my lands and visiting each kingdom.

Perhaps, he had winked, even meeting or making friends. Or more. It was where he had met my mother, after all.

The nausea rose again as I realized the _lies_ behind that old story, the fairytale my mother and father had put me to bed with for as long as I had been a child. I felt sick at the thought of walking back my angry words, of donning my own human lie for years and years on end in the name of a legacy that wasn’t even _true_.

There was a whole part of myself I had never even known about, a savage untruth that lived beneath my skin and needed to be taken into control.

I couldn’t do that here, not where my parents would watch my every move, suspicion and disapproval already a taut string between us.

But there - beyond the Westlands - I could what other lies I had been told, the untruths that had been twisted and weeded through the years.

Grabbing a map of the Kingdom off my desk, I spread the worn parchment across the now-empty floor, my table still shoved against the wall from when I’d kicked it. I had all of Faerie in North America to choose from, and no rules beyond avoiding the path my parents would have had me take. I ripped my circlet off my head, the tiger eye in its center winking as I twirled and twirled it, spinning it round the map until it landed, the jewel marking the spot where I would first go.

It had skidded farther than I had expected, landing itself in the Kingdom of Mists on the western coast. Looking closer, I marked the spot with my finger, reading the name aloud. “San Francisco.”

Closer to the heart of the Kingdom than I would have liked, but disobeying the jewel’s choice seemed wrong somehow. I was starting a journey, and I had to listen to each step along the way, no matter how I felt on its part.

That was, I smiled for the first in some time, the way quests were _supposed_ to work.

My parents would find my note tomorrow evening, long enough for my doppelganger illusion to have given me a long head’s start. I would take nothing with me, beyond my circlet and a small backpack - but the goal, ultimately, would be to avoid detection.

To find - I was not yet sure exactly what.

I had three days journey to figure _that_ out.

 

“ _Sweet are the uses of adversity_

_Which, like the toad, ugly and venomous,_

_Wears yet a precious jewel in his head._ ”

― William Shakespeare, _As You Like It_

 


End file.
